


The Larks, Still Bravely Singing

by Konstantya



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Ballet, F/M, Paris (City), Piano, Post-World War I, Rare Pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:47:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22705684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Konstantya/pseuds/Konstantya
Summary: In post-WWI Paris, pianist Roderich Edelstein needs a job, and ballet instructor Natalya Arlovskaya needs an accompanist. (Human AU. AusBela.)
Relationships: Austria/Belarus (Hetalia)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19





	The Larks, Still Bravely Singing

The first thing he thinks when the door opens is that she’s younger than he expects. She can’t be any older than he is, and stands before him with her pale blonde hair and winter blue eyes, her mouth firm and down-turned.

“Miss Arlovskaya?” he asks.

“Yes?” The word is sharp, and carries an accent that’s unmistakably Slavic, though whether it’s Russian, Polish, or something else, he can’t tell. She looks him up and down in something like disapproval. “What do you want?”

Not, _‘How do you do?’_ or even, _‘Who are you?’_ but, _‘What do you want?’_ It’s a small detail, but a telling one all the same. Roderich doffs his hat at her with what he hopes is suitable politeness. “I’m here about the job.” His other hand tightens around the handle of his suitcase. “And the room,” he adds. “Roderich Edelstein.”

She gives him another look up and down, but apparently deems him acceptable, because she steps back and gestures for him to enter.

Her foyer is not really a foyer so much as a narrow hall, with a staircase at the front and a lavatory at the back. Two doors sit on the left, both leading to the same space, and she opens the closest one, showing him into the studio proper. It’s a large room, with wooden floors and tall windows along the far wall, a workhorse of a piano at one end and a mirror at the other, and against the interior wall, opposite the windows, the long line of the ballet barre. Tucked away in the corner, he notices, is also an old phonograph—no doubt what she’s been managing with, in lieu of an actual musician.

“Do you have much experience in playing the piano, Mr. Edelstein?” It’s a silly question, Roderich thinks, but perhaps she’s had one too many amateurs try to bluff their way into the job—the fact that it comes with a place to sleep is probably too tempting to pass up.

“Extensive,” he simply says. He considers telling her about the concerts in Vienna and Budapest, but decides against it. Miss Arlovskaya hardly seems the type who would take well to bragging, and the memories are bittersweet for Roderich besides.

“And any as a ballet accompanist?”

He hesitates, briefly wondering if he should lie before deciding to stick with the truth. “I’m afraid not,” he admits. “But I’m willing to learn. I took the liberty of researching the types of pieces usually required.”

Miss Arlovskaya seems neither pleased nor displeased with this information, but she steps back and raises an arm to the instrument. “Well,” she says, “I suppose all that is left is for you to play.”

Roderich doffs his hat at her once more, then sets his suitcase down along the wall and his coat and hat on top of it. The piano bench holds a number of music sheets and booklets, and he quickly leafs through them. He stretches his hands—cold from the January weather—and asks, “May I have a few minutes to warm up?” Miss Arlovskaya blinks, and then nods once, brusquely.

He runs through some scales (noting that the instrument is slightly out of tune—perhaps he can fix that if he gets the job), before launching into a polka by Chopin, a waltz by Strauss, and then finishing with a fandango by Soler. From there, Miss Arlovskaya makes requests, calling out for something ‘dark and slow,’ ‘quick in triple time,’ and ‘bouncy with a second beat stress.’ At the end of it, she stands to the side of the piano, a thoughtful expression on her face.

“Consider yourself hired, Mr. Edelstein,” she eventually says, and Roderich has to force himself to not let out a breath of sheer elated relief—it’s the first good news he’s had in months, if not actual years. Before he can express his gratitude, Miss Arlovskaya continues. “The first week will be a trial period. Playing to accompany a ballet class is quite different from playing to merely entertain. But, assuming you can keep up and you still want the position by the end of the week, the job will be yours.”

He stands, and they shake hands to finalize the arrangement. “Thank you.”

“I cannot pay you very much,” she warns.

Roderich’s tempted to tell her he’d work for free so long as it means he has a roof over his head, but manages to resist. Instead, the corner of his mouth tugs up wryly, and he rhetorically asks, “Who can, these days?”

Miss Arlovskaya does not smile, herself, nor do anything else that would suggest she finds any sort of amusement—grim or otherwise—in the words, but she inclines her head at him in something like respect all the same. “Come,” she says, making her way out of the studio. “I will show you to your room.”

\---

The room is in fact a very small apartment, accessed by a second set of stairs at the back of the building. Its features include a tiny kitchenette, a cramped bathroom, and a bed that pulls down from the wall. It’s hardly anything to write home about—if he in fact _had_ much of a home to write to anymore—but Roderich sits down in the flat’s single chair, and for the first time in a long while, simply _breathes_. Outside it’s starting to rain, and his shoulder has begun to ache, as it always does now when the weather turns wet.

No matter, Roderich thinks. He’s used to it by now, and knows he’s incredibly lucky to have escaped the war with merely some joint pain, besides. No, instead he will focus on the future, and how, when the rain lets up, he will go out and splurge a bit of the meager savings he has left on some coffee beans. Cream and sugar can wait, but in the meantime, it will be nice to wake up with the hot, comforting beverage again, even if he _does_ have to drink it black.

A noise comes from the other side of the wall—the bang of a pan or something similarly domestic—and he thinks about Miss Natalya Arlovskaya, his new employer, landlady, and technically neighbor, as she lives in the main space above the studio. She’s a thin, athletic type, as most ballerinas usually are, and has the somber, suspicious personality of one who fled political upheaval. Was she part of a company back home, perhaps even a principal dancer? And if so, does she miss the theaters and opera houses the way he sometimes does?

Paris, they’ve always said, is the city for lovers, but in this post-war world, Roderich watches the rain come down and wonders if it hasn’t become the city for broken hearts, instead.

\---

His first official day as a ballet accompanist is an eye-opening one. Miss Arlovskaya wasn’t lying; playing for a dance class _is_ quite different from playing to entertain, and not just because Miss Arlovskaya will sternly call out instructions over the music, or sometimes clap her hands to help her younger students keep the beat. It goes beyond that, Roderich finds, because even though he knows so many of these pieces well enough to perform them in his sleep, he cannot just mindlessly play like he is in some parlor. He finds he has to pay attention to the girls’ movements just as much as they have to pay attention to his music, that he has to rein in some of the more personal flourishes he might normally employ—because even the best dancer can only move their body so fast—but can afford to be a little more relaxed in other areas. At the end of the day Miss Arlovskaya leads her last class in a deep, elegant curtsy to him, and he bows his head in return.

He stands as she sees her last student out, surprised by how tired he is, and once they are alone, asks her, “Well?”

“You were a bit rough at first,” she says bluntly, “but toward the end you seemed to be getting better. Certainly better than anyone else I have tried to hire.”

The news is buoying, and he continues. “I think I have a better understanding of the sort of things required now. Of what you want and what they need. It’s funny,” Roderich says, with a little laugh that manages to catch himself off guard, “but it’s almost like playing some strange kind of duet. It’s…more interesting than I expected it to be, to be honest.”

Miss Arlovskaya doesn’t say anything, but her features soften in what might be the closest she’s yet come to a smile. She inclines her head respectfully and moves toward the door. “Until tomorrow, Mr. Edelstein.”

\---

And so the days go.

He survives his trial period, settles into the rhythm of the job, and starts to learn the terminology of the dance. With this, an understanding blossoms between him and Miss Arlovskaya, and she ceases to dictate every speed or style she wants, confident that he knows what will best suit a round of _pliés_ or _frappés_. As his comfort grows, he even begins to experiment, improvising spritely little tunes for her youngest girls, and digging deep into his repertoire for her oldest and most advanced. It’s an odd challenge and oddly rewarding, Roderich finds, to fit that perfect piece of a melody with part of a floor routine, so as to perfectly accentuate a leap or _pirouette_. He thought, before, that ballet accompanists were somehow lesser, and that agreeing to be one was basically the musical equivalent of slumming it, but now he has to wonder if all those who train only for concert halls aren’t missing out on something equally marvelous.

Not that he doesn’t miss concert halls, because of course he does, but simply having access to a piano and being able to play on a regular basis eases a lot of the tension. He fixed the tuning issue his second week there, and two weeks after that, asks if he might use the instrument on the off hours—because chipped lacquer and dented legs aside, the piano isn’t a bad one. It has good tone and solid innards, and as marvelous as playing for dancers can be, he still occasionally longs to throw his whole self into a sonata or two. Miss Arlovskaya blinks at the request, but gives him the go-ahead all the same.

In the evenings, after dinner, as the music flows from his body, the studio ceiling will sometimes creak in time with the notes. He does not know what her apartment looks like, but he imagines her above him, her limbs long and graceful as she moves, and he wonders if this is somehow a metaphor for something—that they should live in adjacent flats that only connect through the story below, that she enjoys dancing to his music but should only hear it muffled through the floor.

\---

“You know…” he says to her one day, a little awkwardly, after classes have ended and she’s closing up, “…you’re welcome to join me if you want. In the evenings, I mean. You wouldn’t be imposing or anything. It’s your studio, anyway,” he adds. “You should be able to use it if you want.” Miss Arlovskaya blinks, and seems to turn a little awkward, herself.

“Ah,” she says, “so you heard me.”

“Rather difficult not to with floors that squeak so much,” Roderich points out apologetically.

She takes a moment to lock the front door, but then turns to face him with freshly squared shoulders. “I appreciate the invitation, Mr. Edelstein. I will consider it.”

The next night, she quietly enters while he plays, and when he looks over to give her an acknowledging nod, his fingers can’t help but flounder for a measure. He’s seen her dance, of course, but as the instructor, she rarely does more than the initial demonstrations. She doesn’t work up the sweat that her girls do, and so is often in a rather average dress, with long sleeves and a calf-length skirt, her shoes of the soft leather slipper variety. Now, however, she stands in full practice clothes, in a short-sleeved leotard and a diaphanous wrap skirt, her feet encased in formal pointe shoes. She nods back and proceeds to the barre, and—the initial shock over—Roderich quickly finds his rhythm again.

It’s only when she moves to the center of the floor and more clearly into his field of vision that he stops, suddenly worried he’s being selfish. This _is_ her studio, after all, and he’s been going through the same piece for at least an hour. He clears his throat and says, “I’m sorry. Would you like to hear anything different?” At the question, Miss Arlovskaya turns to him in surprise and silently shakes her head.

“Please, continue,” she simply says. “I like _The Firebird.”_

Of course she would, Roderich thinks; it comes from her own mythology. The story of a magical bird who helps a prince defeat a sorcerer and find true love. He’s been trying to transcribe part of the score for piano, and it’s been a troublesome business due to the complexity of the original orchestrations.

Troublesome, to be sure, but far from unsatisfying, and if Miss Arlovskaya has no objection, well, why shouldn’t he continue? With renewed vigor, he repositions himself on the bench, looks over the most recent notations he’s made, and for what might very well be the dozenth time that day, starts Stravinksy’s _“Danse Infernale.”_

She must have been choreographing in her head, he realizes, because she seems to have some sort of routine already worked out. Out of the corners of his eyes he sees her, arms fluttering like wings and legs springing like sparrows. In the ballet proper it’s an ensemble piece, where the titular bird enchants the sorcerer’s monsters and leads them in a dance, but here Miss Arlovskaya turns it into a solo performance—a determined, almost desperate, celebration of self. She wears no bright costume to signify fire, but her body seems to burn all the same, and even though Roderich redoubles his efforts, furiously trying to focus on the keys, he can’t help it: He’s not an evil magician, but she’s enchanted him nonetheless, and at about three-quarters of the way through, he breaks off, overcome.

Miss Arlovskaya abruptly comes down off of pointe, and looks over at him in concern. Roderich ducks his head and runs a hand through his hair.

“I’m sorry,” he says, embarrassed and breathless. He tries to offer some explanation, but in the end can only tell her the truth. “You dance very beautifully.”

“…You play very beautifully,” she returns, and Roderich looks up to see her watching him, the color high in her cheeks and her eyes wide and luminous. Her skin glistens lightly from activity, and he resists the urge to pick open the top button of his shirt. Instead, he swallows, and turns back to the keyboard, taking a few moments to compose himself.

“Do you ever waltz, Miss Arlovskaya?” he asks, and she blinks at the unexpected shift in conversation.

“I know how to,” she admits. “But I have not done so in a very long time.”

“Nor I,” he says, with a small, rueful smile. And then, before he loses his nerve, he gets up and goes to the nearly-forgotten phonograph. He’s looked through the records before, knows she has one that will work, and with a turn of the crank and a positioning of the needle, the familiar opening strings of Tchaikovsky’s _Swan Lake_ tremulously fill the room.

Miss Arlovskaya fidgets her fingers together, and when Roderich comes to stand in front of her, she raises her eyes to his and confesses, “I think your playing is better than any recording.”

“And no doubt your dancing will be better than mine. Even so,” he asks, “will you do me the honor?”

Courteously, he holds out his hand, and gently, Miss Arlovskaya takes it.

\---

Afterward, she invites him up to her flat for a drink. It’s a comfortably-sized place, though more sparsely decorated than he anticipated. Still, there are hints of feminine touches here and there—a ruffled curtain, a hand-towel edged with ribbon—subtle little attempts to make a foreign house feel like home.

“If you do not mind my asking…” she says at some point, “why did you come to Paris?” They’re sitting at her small kitchen table, two glasses and a bottle of vodka between them, and Roderich thinks it rather unfair that he should be so tipsy after only two shots while she still appears completely sober. “You can well-enough guess my reasons for leaving Minsk, but you…” She tilts her head at him curiously. “I did not think Vienna was so devastated by the war.”

“Not physically,” he concedes, with a bitter humor the alcohol has brought out. “But politically? Economically? And then…” he starts, but immediately trails off, absently running his hand across his mouth. He may very well be drunk, but ultimately he is not _that_ drunk.

Not that it matters much to Miss Arlovskaya, however, because after a moment she prompts, “And then?”

He hesitates, wondering if he shouldn’t tell her the whole sordid story, after all. But where to begin? How to explain? And furthermore, does he really want to relive everything over like that? In the end, he sighs, and with a quiet resignation, simply says, “There were too many memories.”

“Ah,” she murmurs, and the sound is a knowing one. She turns her head to look out the window, the night sky dark and concealing. “I am well-acquainted with those.” Roderich watches her press her lips together carefully, and there is something so distressingly familiar in her features, in the distant look in her eyes and the conflicted quirk to her brow—but before he can say anything, she perks up and pours them both another shot.

“To new beginnings,” she says, and he considers the idea. He hardly needs another drink in his body, but at the same time, how can he possibly refuse such a worthwhile proposal?

He picks up his glass and they toast. “To new beginnings,” he agrees.

Later that night, when she sees him out, he pauses on her threshold. The vodka is still buzzing in his veins, and that look on her face is still branded in his brain, and against his better judgment, he turns at the top of the stairs.

“He was a fool, you know,” he suddenly tells her, and Miss Arlovskaya freezes in pure shock. “Whoever he was,” Roderich fiercely plows on. “He was a fool for letting you go.”

The seconds seem to swell into hours, and he waits for some reaction. In the back of his mind is the ever-growing fear that this is a mistake, that maybe it’s all just some alcohol-induced misinterpretation on his part, and that any hypothetical sweetheart she might have had didn’t actually leave of his own volition. Maybe he even died in the war, Roderich worries, and now there he’s gone, carelessly ripping off the bandage—

But then Miss Arlovskaya moves, and her expression morphs into something like regret. “Perhaps _I_ was the fool for chasing after him for so long.” She looks at him for another moment, her eyes as open and warm as he’s ever seen them, and adds, “But thank you, Mr. Edelstein. Please do be careful on the stairs.”

\---

“How did you know,” she asks him later, “that I had once been in love?” It’s April, on one of their off days, and the question catches him unprepared as they stroll down the streets.

“Oh—ah—well…” he finally says, “let’s just say I recognized the look.”

“Ah,” she simply replies, because they understand each other like that. “And was she similarly a fool for letting _you_ go?”

“No,” Roderich laughs, the word short and self-deprecating, “probably not.” He takes a breath and proceeds to elaborate. “The war took its toll on the both of us. Even if she hadn’t wanted to leave…”—he shakes his head—“I don’t think it would have lasted. We were both too changed to go back to how we’d been.”

“War seems to have a habit of doing that to people,” she notes, not unkindly. A solemn moment passes between them, but then Roderich briskly clasps his hands behind his back.

“Still,” he says, “it isn’t so bad, all things considered.” He raises his eyes to the blue sky that stretches out over the city. “I’m here. I have a job. A roof over my head. A fair employer,” he adds, with a fond nod in her direction. “Who, for some unknown reason, lets me have completely unrestricted access to a piano…”

She turns her head away, but he can nevertheless make out the faint blush that blooms on her cheeks. “I wasn’t lying before,” she admits. “You _do_ play very beautifully.”

“Well,” he says, still watching her, “I don’t know that I’ve ever had my playing appreciated quite so passionately.”

She takes a moment to collect herself, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin. “Well,” she echoes, “perhaps I’ll have to try it again someday. Provided you think you can actually get through the piece this time.” She hazards a glance up at him, her gaze sparkling in impish delight, and Roderich stops and stares, amusement pulling at his mouth.

She’s utterly bewitching, he thinks. He might even be in love.

From there, their walk continues, taking them into the market. The flower sellers have reemerged with the spring, and he picks out a single white rose for her.

“You do realize,” she says when he presents it, a teasing lilt to her voice and a dry arch to her brow, “that since I pay your wages, this essentially amounts to me buying myself a flower?”

He does, in fact, realize that. He also doesn’t care. “Humor me,” Roderich says, and Natalya smiles and does.

**Author's Note:**

> In the immediate aftermath of WWI (AKA, 1919-1921), a lot of Europe (and even North America) suffered a pretty significant recession (hence Roderich simply being happy to have a roof over his head at the beginning of the fic). The end of the war also saw the collapse of both the Austro-Hungarian and German Empires, and then there was the earlier Russian Revolution in 1917, which in turn affected a lot of the areas under Russian control (including, yes, Belarus). It was basically like someone put the governments of Central and Eastern Europe in a salad spinner, so no surprise that an Austrian pianist and a Belarusian ballerina might decide to move somewhere more politically stable, yeah?
> 
> _The Firebird_ debuted in 1910, and while there _is_ a piano transcription of _“Danse Infernale”_ out there (along with two other movements from the ballet) by Guido Agosti, they weren’t published until 1928. As this fic takes place right around 1920, any piano version Roderich might play would logically have to be one he came up with, himself. ([Here’s](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3JWDFXlec3w) a really hot performance of the Agosti suite, and [here’s](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MOWJuZqQMmk) a ballet performance of the piece.)
> 
> The story of _Swan Lake_ was derived from both Germanic and Slavic fairytales—a nice little mash-up of Roderich’s and Natalya’s respective backgrounds, no? ;D (And [here’s](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CShopT9QUzw) the waltz they dance to, in case you were curious.)
> 
> White roses are often associated with innocence and purity, but they just as often symbolize hope and new beginnings. (Way, _way_ back in the day, they were also associated with romantic love, though that’s more of a neat coincidence than anything.) And then there’s the fact that the name “Belarus” literally means _“White_ Russia.”
> 
> In other news, while I wanted to bring in the human counterparts of Hungary and Russia for canon reasons, I also wanted to keep things ambiguous since the focus was obviously supposed to be on Roderich/Natalya. What their respective relationships were with Elizabeta and Ivan is open to interpretation (though it’s probably safe to assume that Ivan isn’t her brother, as actual human incest squicks me the hell out, pfft).
> 
> Lastly, this fic was partly inspired by [this image set](https://konstantya.tumblr.com/post/156627586914/myladydivine-but-tell-me-did-you-sail-across) on tumblr.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading!


End file.
